


Another Way Through Time (Time After Time Remix)

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco makes his choice. (Remix of furiosity's "Another Way Through Time")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Way Through Time (Time After Time Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Another Way Through Time](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8116) by furiosity. 



> Originally posted April 3, 2006.
> 
> Written for the Remix...Redux IV, based on [Another Way Through Time](http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=11368) by furiosity.

_Oh, ye so fiercely tended,  
  Ye little seeds of hate!  
I bent above your growing  
  Early and noon and late,  
Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,—  
  I cannot rear ye straight!_  
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

He didn't really feel the pain until he stopped running.

It was a dark, damp night, without even the light of the waxing moon to guide the way as he fled the manor. The distant, rumbling thunder was no louder than the pounding of his blood as he ran, and ran, and ran, until finally he fell, facedown in a field. Carefully he rolled himself onto his back, only then truly comprehending that the waves of agony in his midsection were due to more than just a stitch in his side.

It hadn't been a nightmare, then. A vain hope, of course, but not unreasonable given the circumstances.

_Avada Kedavra!_

His eyes closed and he trembled, remembering the sight of his father's slow fall, his eyes still wide with shock that the Dark Lord would turn his wand against one of his most loyal servants, and the way his mother had fallen on top of him, clawing desperately at his body and screaming, until another curse from the Dark Lord had silenced her. Then the Dark Lord had turned to him.

"You may leave, Draco." That high, cold voice had sounded almost amused. "You are free to go wherever the wind takes you. If you come back, I will know that you are mine forever—and your loyalty will be rewarded, just as your father's perfidy was punished." Draco had stood, frozen, still unable to tear his gaze from the corpses of his parents, heaped on the gleaming floor as though they'd been tossed aside like so much rubbish. Only when the Dark Lord addressed him again did he manage to shake himself from his stupor and realize that he needed to get out of there, _fast_. He nodded in acknowledgement and made his way toward the door, trying not to appear rushed.

"Oh, and one last thing," the Dark Lord had said, and Draco, too well-trained to ignore his Lord, turned back to him. The Dark Lord lifted his wand, and in that half-second Draco recognized the incantation for a slow-acting Entrail-Expelling Curse, aimed squarely at his own abdomen. His face must have shown plainly the horror he felt, for the Dark Lord had laughed. "Just to make things interesting," he said.

And Draco had run.

* * *

He lay on his back in the field, watching as the black of the night sky was occluded by blacker storm clouds, and feeling the sick, slow churning in his gut that told him the Dark Lord's curse had found its mark. He didn't know how much time he had, or whether it would even be worth the effort to move. His only family were dead; the leader in whom he'd placed his trust had betrayed him; even Professor Snape, the closest thing he'd had to a mentor, had died a month ago at Spinner's End—though at whose hand Draco was no longer sure. Perhaps it would be easier, he thought, to stay and hope he drowned in the coming storm. He closed his eyes and tried to block the pain.

Another clap of thunder, closer now, jolted him back to awareness. The horizon glowed with a flash of light—white, not green, though he shivered regardless.

In that moment, he realized he didn't want to die after all.

* * *

Apparating very nearly sapped him of his remaining strength, and it was at least partly through sheer force of will that he dragged himself in the direction of the warehouse, its shape a dark smudge through the driving rain, but its lone small window glowing like a beacon. He staggered toward the door through which he'd seen the werewolf pass when Draco had tracked him here last night—and he was suddenly, fiercely grateful that the Dark Lord had acted tonight before Draco could pass on his information regarding the location of the Order's new headquarters—the information he alone among the Dark Lord's ranks possessed.

He braced himself against the doorway and raised a fist to knock, praying they would hear him, praying they wouldn't turn him away, or murder him on the spot as a traitor. He bent his head, feeling the rain continuing to hammer against him. He was soaked to the skin, and his vision was beginning to gray. 

When there was no answer, he knocked again, harder this time, though it cost him to do so. He swayed on his feet, and pain ripped through him. When his hand touched his side, he felt a warm wetness on his clothing that he didn't think had anything to do with rain. 

In desperation, he knocked one last time, then began to scratch feebly at the door. "Please," he whispered. "Please."

As if in answer to his plea, the door swung open, and he was presented with a sight he never would have thought he'd greet with relief: Harry Potter, his wand leveled directly at Draco's chest.

"Potter," he choked, feeling his last hold on consciousness beginning to slip from his grasp. "Please—"

As the thunder crashed again and lightning cut a jagged arc across the sky, Potter lifted his wand higher and shouted, "Now, Remus!"

The werewolf leapt from behind the door and grabbed Draco with strong hands. He felt his body hit the floor, and then nothing.

* * *

When he came to, it was to yet more pain. He didn't scream, but it was a close thing.

He was lying on some sort of makeshift bed, and standing over him were the werewolf, the Weasel, and the Mudblood. Maybe he'd died and gone to hell, he wondered. But, no, hell wouldn't be complete without Potter, and he'd absented himself somehow.

"Draco," the werewolf said, not unkindly. "What happened to you?"

He would not cry, he _would not_ , especially not in front of this crowd. Haltingly, he told them about his parents, and about the curse. He told them how he'd lain in that field until the rain started to fall, thinking about what a mess he'd made of his life. "I want to live," he told the werewolf, grasping his arm with one shamefully weak hand. "The Dark Lord—he just—he kills, and they—I want to _live_."

"Of course you do," the werewolf said. "And I'll do my best to see that you do. We need to get you to a hospital."

"You can't fix me here?"

"Voldemort monitors our magic use. We can't do any magic, or he would figure out our location and be here in a heartbeat to finish us all off."

Draco shuddered. "No. Please."

"We've patched you up as best we can," the Mudblood said. Her gaze was curious, but not hostile. "Professor Lupin is going to take you to the nearest hospital."

Potter appeared at the werewolf's side, and his gaze, by contrast, was openly suspicious. "The map says the closest field hospital is miles from here. It could take you days to get there without magic and without being seen."

"We'll have to risk it," the werewolf said. "We can't very well let him die here."

"I didn't mean that," Potter said. "It's just—it's _Malfoy_. We can't trust him. And it's getting close to the full moon, Remus."

"I'm aware of that. I'm sure we'll reach the hospital before that becomes an issue."

"Maybe I should—"

"No, you're far too important, Harry, you know that—"

"But Malfoy—"

He wasn't sure if the ache in his head was from the curse or the bickering, but either way, Draco was almost relieved to lose consciousness again.

* * *

The journey with the werewolf—Lupin, rather—took four long, pain-filled days. But at the end of them he was still alive, for which he had to give Potter and his merry band credit. They had dosed him with a restorative potion that gave him at least enough energy to walk (albeit slowly) under his own steam as well as slowed the effects of the curse. But they had nothing that would either stop or reverse it—that would require intricate medical spellwork.

"What made you decide to come to us?" Lupin asked on the third night, as they prepared to bed down in an abandoned hut on the edge of the woods.

Draco lay on his back and willed himself to ignore the pain that ate at him with increasing strength, in spite of the restorative potion. "I knew where you were," he said. "I followed you the night before."

"But you didn't turn us in to Voldemort?"

He couldn't bring himself to look at Lupin. "I was going to," he admitted. "But then—my parents—"

"That made you decide not to?"

"That made me decide I needed to get away from the Dark Lord, because he's a psychotic, terrifyingly insane monster."

Lupin's laugh was soft in the darkness, and Draco found he didn't mind the sound. "That's—an apt description, I think," Lupin said. "Still, why come to us?"

Draco was silent for a long moment, remembering that evening. "I fell down in a field and thought I was going to die," he replied at last. "And so I had some time to think. I thought about all the choices I'd made, and the reasons I'd made them." He took a breath. "And the truth is—none of those choices were really mine. I made certain decisions because my parents expected them of me. My choices were their choices. And—well, if my father had chosen the other side—your side—he wouldn't have died. He wouldn't have gone to Azkaban, and the Dark Lord wouldn't have helped him to escape, only to 'make an example' of him for accidentally destroying some toy of his—"

"The diary," Lupin murmured.

"What?"

"Thinking out loud, sorry."

"Yeah, well, whatever it was, Dad unknowingly fucked up somehow, and the Dark Lord wouldn't stand for it. He killed my father for making a mistake, and he killed my mother because she loved my father too much to let him be killed without a protest. He cursed me just for being there. I could have died—I could still die."

"I won't let you die, Draco."

"I just—I don't want to live with that fear every day. I don't want to spend my life in the service of someone who can kill without thought." His mind drifted back to the terrifying minutes at the top of the Astronomy Tower. _Draco, you are not a killer,_ Dumbledore had said. He'd thought that made him a coward, then. He wasn't so sure of that anymore.

"You realize," Lupin said, "our side doesn't stand for the same—ideals—as Voldemort's does."

"I know," Draco said. "But better alive and living side-by-side with Mudbloods than dead at the Dark Lord's hand."

Lupin was silent for a few moments, apparently digesting this. "So what do you plan to do?"

"Well, first I'd like to make it to the hospital."

Lupin chuckled. "After that, I mean. We should reach the hospital tomorrow. What do you plan to do after you're cured?"

"I—" Draco frowned. "I don't know. I kind of figured I'd help you and Potter and everyone somehow. I want to help get rid of the Dark Lord."

Lupin's voice, when he next spoke, was hesitant. "Would Voldemort still trust you, do you think, if you were to go back to him?"

Panic seized at him. "I told you, I don't want to be a Death Eater anymore!"

"No, Draco, I didn't mean it like that. I only meant—have you ever given any thought to…spying?"

"I—what? No. Spying?" But the idea had some appeal. If he were go to back to the Dark Lord even after seeing his parents murdered, the Dark Lord would see that as proof of loyalty. And as long as he were careful….

"We haven't had a well-placed spy among the Death Eaters since Severus Snape," said Lupin. His tone was conversational, as if this weren't a life-or-death matter they were discussing. "You could be of invaluable service to our cause. But it would have to be your decision."

 _Your decision._ "Yes," Draco said. "I'll do it."

"Draco, you don't have to decide now. And certainly don't do it just because I'm asking you."

"I'm not," Draco said. "Well, I guess I am, sort of. I mean, you're asking me to do this, and you're the one going out of your way to save my life. It's the least I can do in return."

"Draco, no."

"Yes."

"No, I should never have—look, it's very dangerous. Voldemort is an accomplished Legilimens. If you were caught—"

"I've had Occlumency training," Draco said. "I've hidden things from the Dark Lord before. I could do it, I'm sure."

"Draco—"

"And I _want_ to do it," he said. "I want to bring down the Dark Lord. I want to help you—all of you. And—it's my choice."

"Draco." Lupin's voice sounded concerned. "If you should change your mind—"

"I won't," Draco said confidently, and he relished the thought so much, he voiced it again. "It's my choice." 

* * *

Three days later, fully recovered from the effects of the curse, Draco returned to the Dark Lord, who, as predicted, singled him out for his loyalty and granted him a position of rank among his fellow Death Eaters. Draco accepted his reward with a combination of deference and smugness that pleased the Dark Lord greatly.

And in secret, he began corresponding with Lupin.

* * *

The first time he met with Lupin and Potter to pass on information, he wasn't sure what to expect. But when Potter pulled a small bottle out of his pocket, he quickly realized what he _should_ have anticipated.

"Wait, no one said anything about fucking Veritaserum—"

Potter frowned. "Right, because we're just supposed to trust everything you say, since you've always been such a staunch supporter of the fight against Voldemort." A hand from Lupin on his shoulder made Potter shut up, but his expression was no more welcoming, and his eyes were intent on Draco, as if just waiting for him to make a false move.

It was an oddly attractive look for him, Draco thought, and his jaw actually fell open at the shock of it. He didn't even resist when Potter placed three drops of the vile stuff on his tongue.

"Why don't we get started?" Lupin said after a pause to wait for the serum to take effect. "Tell me, what is your full name?"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," Draco answered promptly.

"Oh, you can't ask that," Potter interrupted. "That doesn't prove anything. You have to ask him something he wouldn't want to tell us."

Lupin merely raised his eyebrows.

"Malfoy," Potter said, turning to him again, and even through the haze the potion cast over his mental processes, he couldn't help observing that somehow Potter's eyes became even greener when he was thinking. Pity he didn't do it more often. "What task did Voldemort want you to accomplish at Hogwarts in sixth year?"

"I—" The question was a good one; his instinct was to resist, but the Veritserum wouldn't allow him to. "Kill Dumbledore."

"Did you do it?"

"No, I didn't."

Potter's eyes were very, very green now. "Why not?"

"Because—I was scared." And, Merlin, it pained him to admit that. He trembled with the effort to halt his words, but the potion was too strong. "And I didn't really understand what was at stake until I had the old man at wandpoint."

Potter leaned closer, his gaze fixed on Draco's in a way that sent an odd, but not unwelcome, tingle down Draco's spine. "So why did you—"

"Harry," Lupin said. "That's enough. That's not why we're here."

Potter drew back, and Draco couldn't stop his sigh at the loss. Potter didn't appear to notice, but Lupin raised an eyebrow. However, he said only, "Draco, tell us why you're here today."

"To pass on information about an attack the Dark Lord is planning in London."

"Are you certain the information is true?"

"Yes. I was present in the Dark Lord's strategy session. I heard it from his own mouth."

"You don't think he might have been lying for your benefit?"

"No. I'm certain he trusts me."

"Tell me everything you learned about the attack."

Draco did.

* * *

There were other meetings over the next several months, sometimes with Potter or Lupin, sometimes with others who were part of Potter's retinue—Weasley, Granger, Longbottom (oh, what was Draco getting himself into?), even a pink-haired witch named Tonks who claimed to be some sort of kin to him (although considering he was kin to at least half the wizarding world, that probably wasn't saying much). Usually the meetings consisted of only Draco and one Order member, which he supposed showed they had at least some small measure of trust in him that he wouldn't kill the Order emissary in cold blood.

Lupin was always cordial, and Draco began to feel as though they were developing a careful sort of friendship. Weasley was generally rude, as befitted his upbringing; Granger was polite, but cautious. Longbottom no longer seemed afraid of Draco, which was an odd experience. Tonks was mad as a brush, but he found he rather liked her regardless. And Potter—well, Potter was…wary. Every time they met, Draco could tell Potter was fighting the urge to call him a liar. But he never did, and that was the most puzzling thing of all.

"Malfoy," Potter would greet him when they met at the appointed place.

"Potter," Draco would return, and hand over whatever information he had for the Order at that time.

Potter never thanked him. Draco wasn't particularly surprised.

Often they parted almost as quickly as they met. Sometimes, though, further discussion was merited. Draco would explain the documents he'd brought, and Potter would nod, listening closely, sometimes asking additional questions. When Potter grew pensive, his eyes would darken and his features would tighten into an expression of concentration that inexplicably left Draco feeling warm and fidgety. It wasn't hard to imagine Potter wearing that intent look for other reasons—and if that wasn't an avenue of thought that Draco should never have explored, he didn't know what was. But certainly Lupin, Weasley, and Longbottom never affected him that way. After one prolonged meeting with Potter, when just the sound of Potter's voice had provoked awareness in unmentionable places, Draco concluded desperately that the only explanation was that it had been far, far too long since he'd had a good shag.

Most frequently, the meetings with Order members involved only a handoff of information; occasionally, though, Veritaserum was called into play, and those were the meetings he dreaded.

At one such meeting, Lupin waited until the effects of the Veritaserum had nearly worn off and, apropos of nothing, asked, "Do you find Harry Potter attractive?"

"Yes," Draco answered, the truth so unequivocal that there was no opportunity to stop himself from voicing it. He glared at Lupin.

Lupin chuckled. "Don't worry, I won't tell him."

"You'd better not, you meddling old werewolf," Draco muttered, and tried to convince himself he wasn't blushing. Fucking Veritaserum—it wouldn't even let him lie to himself.

* * *

"Draco, you've seemed unusually tense lately," the Dark Lord observed, and as though the words had been a command, Draco felt the muscles in his back and neck tighten uncomfortably.

He gave the Dark Lord a bland smile, all the while carefully testing the shields he'd erected in his mind. "What makes you say that, My Lord?"

"The house-elves say you've not been sleeping well."

That was true enough. Several times just this week he'd awakened from mind-numbingly erotic dreams about Potter to find himself panting, his sheets damp. "It's merely the excitement of knowing we're so close to achieving our goals, My Lord," he lied.

The Dark Lord scrutinized him, those inhuman red eyes narrowing. Draco thought he felt a touch of…something…in his mind, then a smooth retreat. The Dark Lord smiled. "Of course," he said. "It's difficult not to feel energized by our imminent victory. Particularly when we are now one step closer to drawing the Potter brat out of hiding."

The words sent a chill through Draco, though he schooled his face to show only cool interest. "What do you mean, My Lord? I wasn't aware there was another plan to execute this week."

"There isn't," the Dark Lord said, eyes gleaming. "That is what makes it so delightful. It is a sign—the fates are with us, Draco."

"What is a sign, My Lord?"

The Dark Lord gestured. "Come with me."

He followed the Dark Lord down a dim corridor, through a series of tunnels, down staircases he hadn't known existed in this near-ruin the Dark Lord had chosen as a temporary headquarters. When they reached yet another clearly subterranean passageway, the Dark Lord stopped and indicated a narrow, eye-level opening in the wall. "Take a look," he said.

Draco did, and it was all he could do not to recoil in horror. _Weasley and Granger._

"Are they dead, My Lord?" he asked, injecting just the right amount of cruel amusement into his tone.

"No, no, not yet," the Dark Lord answered. "They are too valuable to us as they are. Not to say we can't have a little…fun with them, of course."

"Of course," Draco echoed, his mind racing. "How did you happen to—acquire them?"

"As it happens, Bellatrix found them, quite by accident. She was good enough to capture them for me and bring them back here."

"Yes," said Draco. "Very good of her."

"She obviously had a bit of sport with them along the way," the Dark Lord continued, as though the battered, bloodied bodies Draco had just observed were the result of an impromptu Quidditch match. "But I find I can forgive that. After all." The Dark Lord smiled. "They're in my possession now. And what won't Potter do to get them back?"

* * *

It was just his luck that Potter insisted he be the one to meet with Draco to discuss the situation with Granger and Weasley. Oh, no, it couldn't be nice ex-Professor Lupin or cheerful Tonks or even that half-wit Longbottom. No, clearly Potter wanted to strangle him _personally_.

Which was why it was such a surprise to find Potter not angry, but…empty.

The hollowness in Potter's eyes made Draco itch to touch him—to brush his slightly too-long hair off his face, to press his thumbs into Potter's pale neck and try to smooth away the tension that tightened his features. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"What do you know?" Potter asked, and he sounded tired.

"They're in the Dark Lord's headquarters right now, but they're being moved tomorrow."

"Where to?"

"I don't know."

"Damn it, Malfoy, isn't that why we have a spy in Voldemort's circle? So you _know_ things like this?"

Draco wanted to hit him. "The Dark Lord hasn't told _anyone_ his plans yet. My guess is, he'll move them somewhere closer to London, the better to tempt you with. As soon as I know where they're being moved, I'll begin working out the best way to get them out of there."

Potter rubbed his face with his hands. "Fuck," he muttered, then his eyes met Draco's again. "Are they all right, though? They're—OK?"

Draco looked away. "They're alive," he said shortly.

"That's not what I asked."

"Damn it, Potter, how do you think they are? They're locked in the Dark Lord's dungeon while he and my Aunt Bellatrix and some of the others have 'a bit of sport' with them." He'd managed to press a bottle of restorative potion on Granger after they'd put Weasley in a particularly bad way. He didn't know how long it would last. 

"Fuck," Potter said again, closing his eyes.

"Right," Draco said. " _Fuck._ "

"If it weren't for me—"

"Damn it, Potter, don't take that attitude with me. I don't have the patience for your oh-woe-I'm-the-savior-of-the-world pity party today."

Now the dullness in Potter's eyes was sharpened by anger. "God, I hate you, Malfoy."

"Good," Draco said, even as something constricted in his chest at Potter's words. "At least there's one person in the world you won't mope and whine about."

Potter turned his back on Draco and wrapped his arms around himself. His voice was calmer when he spoke again. "Just promise me, Malfoy. Promise me you're doing your best to—to keep them alive. I know you hate them, but—"

"Fuck you, Potter. If you think I'd—"

Potter turned back to him, wearing a pained smile. "No," he said. "No, I guess I don't."

Draco took in the haggard lines of Potter's face and hated himself for even momentarily wishing that Potter—or anybody—would ever feel that strongly about him. "I'm trying," he told Potter. "I'm trying, I swear."

Potter nodded. "I know," he said. Then, "I trust you."

The words would have brought Draco comfort, if he hadn't known Potter was lying.

* * *

Draco soon discovered he’d been right about the Dark Lord's intentions, but that brought little relief given Weasley and Granger's conditions after further torture at the hands of the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had remarked conversationally that he was using Weasley as a test subject for an experimental form of Legilimency. He didn't mention what was being done to Granger, but after seeing her lying sprawled, bleeding and unconscious in her holding cell, Draco had a fair guess. He needed to get them out of there. Potter needed to get them out of there. Tonight, he was scheduled to meet with Potter, and from there the Order's plan would be set in motion. By tomorrow evening, Granger and Weasley would be free. 

Draco only wished he knew as much about the length of his own form of captivity.

The wind had been picking up all afternoon; there appeared to be a monster of a storm in the offing. Sighing, he watched raindrops begin to patter against the windowpane and counted the hours until he would meet with Potter.

* * *

He knew something was wrong the instant he Disapparated. A strange sensation of heat and energy engulfed him, and he felt himself losing consciousness. His last thought was that he hoped he hadn't either died or splinched himself, because Potter would never let him hear the end of it.

* * *

When he came to, he was lying half on the floor, half in a pair of wiry arms that apparently were intent on dragging him across said floor. He blinked awake and realized the arms belonged to Potter. He made some small noise, and Potter, apparently startled, very nearly dropped him. Draco twisted in Potter's grasp and threw his own arms around the other man, only a little ashamed to find himself clinging. Potter's body was warm and dry, and he smelled like dust and candle smoke. Draco buried his nose in Potter's neck and breathed deeply for one long, lovely moment, until Potter began flailing, trying to extricate himself. Draco drew back and held Potter's gaze, almost daring him to react. But Potter said only, "You caused ball lightning when you Apparated. You shouldn't Apparate in a thunderstorm."

Over mugs of tea—Draco wrapped his hands around his, trying to draw some warmth into them—Draco described the location of the house where the Dark Lord was holding Granger and Weasley. "The place is heavily warded, naturally," he told Potter. "It'll have to be you and just one other Order member. Only two people at a time without the Dark Mark can pass through the gates undetected."

"Why is that?" Potter asked.

"It's so the Dark Lord doesn't have to dismantle the wards every time he wants to bring in a new set of prisoners," he said bluntly.

Potter's expression hardened, and he looked away.

Neither had planned to spend the night in the shack, but the ball lightning remained outside the door and the storm raged on around them, making Apparition unsafe. There was only one narrow bed, and Potter insisted that Draco take it, since he was still pale and chilled from his Apparition mishap. Draco was tempted to suggest they share it. "Body heat," he wanted to say. "It'll keep us both warm and safe." But Potter didn't trust him, and they were both very, very aware of the fact.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, still nursing his mug of tea, and watched in the glow of the lightning outside as Potter lay his head down on his folded arms at the table, studiously ignoring Draco's presence. Draco felt inexplicably restless, and wandered to the window to watch the storm.

He didn't think it was just the tea that had him wired, or the storm that left him feeling off-kilter. Something was coming, he was sure of it.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but eventually he heard Potter begin to snore softly behind him. Draco gave a quiet snort of laughter and made his way back toward the table, gazing down at the black head pillowed on pale arms. Potter's body appeared to tremble slightly in the chill air, so Draco fetched a blanket from the small bed and wrapped it around Potter's shoulders, his hands lingering only a little too long. He took the seat opposite Potter at the table.

It was such a strange and intimate thing, watching another person sleep. Potter snored and made snuffling noises and mumbled unintelligibly at times. His face was relaxed—the first time Draco had seen it so in…well, a very long time, if ever—but not content. He slept like a man exhausted beyond all reason. Draco had entertained many a fantasy these last several months of shagging Potter into a blissful, sated heap, but in that moment, he would have traded all of them for the chance to see Potter truly at rest, and at peace. The thought left him feeling unsettled, so he pushed it aside and concentrated on watching over Potter.

When dawn began to creep through the window, Draco stretched, and got up to make tea.

* * *

That evening, the Dark Lord gathered his top-ranking Death Eaters for a private meeting.

"I've received word from one of my spies," he told them, "that Potter is planning to attempt a rescue of our guests tonight. What say we show him a proper welcome?"

The Dark Lord's excitement was contagious, and the Death Eaters laughed as they planned the ambush. Draco did too, even as his heart lodged in his throat. There was no time to warn Potter and Longbottom.

* * *

At the moment the Death Eaters—Draco among them—sprang their trap, Potter's face was illuminated by a flash of lightning. Draco could read clearly Potter's first thought: _Malfoy betrayed us after all._

* * *

In the end, Draco wasn't sure if he'd even had time for thought. The Death Eaters attacked, and the air was alive with curses. He never heard Potter cast the Killing Curse, although he must have, because in an instant, the Dark Lord was dead, and the rain stopped.

Potter stood trembling in the silent aftermath, his head bowed and his wand shooting green sparks.

Draco froze as a blood-curdling scream ripped through the night. His Aunt Bellatrix stood over the Dark Lord's corpse like an avenging angel, her wand leveled directly at Potter.

"Die, wretch!" she spat. " _Avada_ —"

Draco was sure he shouted something, but he didn't know what. All he saw was Potter's death in his aunt's eyes.

Without hesitation, he launched himself at Potter, knocking him flat into the mud, while somewhere beyond them was a shout and a flash of blue light. Draco lay on top of Potter's prone form, catching his breath, his body beginning to shake with the aftereffects of adrenaline. But there was no time to lose—if Bellatrix could attack, so could any of the others. He rose to his feet, and grasped Potter by the arms to pull him up as well.

"We should get out of here," he said.

Potter whirled and his eyes widened. "Malfoy?" 

The disbelief in Potter's tone was like a lash. Draco pushed aside the irrational hurt. "If my aunt has managed to recover, the others will follow soon. We should go."

Longbottom, who had Bellatrix locked in a set of invisible restraints, announced that he would take her to the Ministry. Which left Draco alone with Potter—and an array of unconscious Death Eaters.

"Are you all right?" Draco couldn't stop himself from asking. His voice was hoarse, and he told himself it was only from the stress of the night. "Do you need—"

"You saved my life," Potter blurted, still obviously stunned. "You—"

Draco cut him off; he couldn't deal with this now. "Potter. I'll thank you to postpone your moment of existential enlightenment until a more appropriate time. We should go and get Weasley and Granger before they"—he gestured around them—"come to and realize they've lost the war."

Potter nodded dully.

Draco straightened his spine and pushed aside all thoughts not related to what they needed to accomplish tonight. "Follow me," he said.

* * *

Later, Draco would barely remember carrying Granger and Weasley out of the house where they'd been imprisoned. He helped Potter convey them to St. Mungo's, and then he left. Potter had his friends back; the war was over. Draco wasn't needed anymore.

It was time he tried to forget about Potter entirely.

* * *

It didn't take long for him to realize that he was effectively homeless. The Malfoy properties were being held by the Ministry, and it wasn't as though he could crash at a random Order safehouse. And so he rented the first available flat he found. The building's staircase was falling apart, the walls were peeling, the whole building smelled vaguely like cat piss, and Merlin only knew what sorts of vermin the flat might be harboring. He didn't care. At least no one would look for him there.

It was, therefore, a surprise several mornings later to be awakened by an insistent _tap tap tap_ at the window. He stumbled out of bed and found an owl hovering outside, a note attached to its leg. Blearily he wrestled the window open and, on his third attempt, managed to untie the note. He stared at it when he realized it was from Remus Lupin, inviting him for lunch at a Muggle pub near the Ministry. He hadn't seen Lupin since That Night; hadn't even thought of him, truth be told.

The owl nipped at his finger, jolting him back to awareness. After a moment's hesitation, he scribbled an acceptance at the bottom of Lupin's note and tied it to the owl's leg. He was sure he was going to regret this, but Lupin had been decent to him and at the very least deserved the courtesy of an acknowledgment.

Trepidation gnawed at him as he approached the pub that afternoon, and he took a deep breath before entering. Lupin was already seated. He waved Draco over with a friendly smile and stood to greet him with a handshake. "How are you?" Lupin asked when they'd both taken a seat.

"Still alive," Draco replied shortly. "You?"

"The same," Lupin said, "for which I am profoundly grateful."

Draco only nodded.

They made small talk until their meals arrived—Lupin asked where he was living ("Draco, that's not a very good neighborhood," Lupin fretted. "Please," Draco replied, rolling his eyes, "I'm a wizard."), how he was getting on ("Your inheritance....," Lupin said. "Accounts frozen, property seized as evidence," Draco said, and wouldn't discuss the matter further.), what kind of support network he had ("Surely you have family…," Lupin said. "Dead," Draco said. "Friends?" Lupin asked. "Dead, or sent abroad," Draco replied. "Besides, their parents were Death Eaters; I'm not going to be very popular with them anymore."). Finally, Lupin got around to the subject Draco had known was coming.

"Harry told me what happened that night."

Draco took a large bite of his sandwich and didn't meet Lupin's gaze. 

"That was a very selfless thing you did."

Draco snorted.

"Why do you say that?" Lupin sounded amused.

"I've never done a selfless thing in my life," Draco muttered.

"So, you had something to gain by ensuring Harry's survival?"

"Like I wouldn't have been drawn and quartered for letting the Chosen One die on my watch."

"Ah. So, in that split second of danger, you were motivated only by the thought of avoiding punishment?"

He took a deep draught of his Muggle beer—which surprisingly was not that bad—and didn't respond.

"Draco," Lupin said calmly, and against his will, Draco met his eyes, knowing he probably looked as petulant as he felt. "I know how you feel about—"

"You know nothing," Draco snapped. "Nothing."

Lupin sighed. "Draco, like it or not, you did a great service for Harry, and for the wizarding world."

"Anyone—"

"No," Lupin interrupted. " _Anyone_ would not have done it. You risked your life to save another man's. You could just as easily have been hit by the curse."

"Would have been no great loss," he muttered.

"Draco—"

"No, look," Draco said, straightening his back and looking Lupin square in the eyes. "You're trying to read something into this that doesn't exist. You want to turn me into some kind of Potter-esque hero—no, don't you say anything, I know what you're getting at. Well, you know what? I don't want any of it." He felt his head starting to pound. He knew his voice was rising, but he didn't care. "I don't want anyone to know what happened. Potter's the one who saved the world—let him be their glory boy. I just want to be left alone, damn it!"

Lupin's expression was sad, but he nodded. They ate in silence for several minutes. Finally, Lupin said gently, "Draco, Harry's been very confused—don't you think you should at least tell him what you—"

Draco set down his glass with a thunk and stood up. "Thank you for inviting me to lunch," he said, because his mother had taught him that manners were important even when one was consumed with murderous rage. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, but I must be going."

Lupin sighed. "Draco, wait."

"No," Draco said, more sharply than he'd intended. "No. I can't—my role in all this is done. I just want to forget about it, and I want everyone to forget me."

"You can't keep running from this forever, Draco."

"I'm not running," Draco said. "I'm surviving."

* * *

Lupin's owl woke Draco with its infernal tapping on the window at far too early an hour. He snatched the newspaper the bird carried and shooed her away, then froze when he saw the front page.

_The Daily Prophet, November 20, 1998_

_FROM BAD FAITH TO GOODWILL_

_As we all know, the defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named was brought about by Harry Potter, long touted as the Chosen One by a number of international publications. Neville Longbottom, the son of former Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, was also instrumental in the final battle, though information on the exact details of said battle has been scant, as neither Harry Potter nor Neville Longbottom have been available for comment in the five days since hostilities have ended._

_Neville Longbottom is currently at an undisclosed foreign location, taken away by his relatives to recuperate. Unconfirmed witness reports state that he's lost the use of his legs and both his arms are in slings. Harry Potter, seemingly unharmed, is spending most of his days at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. There are two lines of speculation—either he is there for personal mental health issues or he is there because of his friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, whom he apparently rescued from a burning house after the final battle._

_However, a confidential source revealed late last night that there was another at both the final battle and the heroic rescue of Mr Weasley and Miss Granger from the burning house—one Draco Malfoy, son and heir to Lucius Malfoy, a confirmed Death Eater, and Narcissa Malfoy (née Black), a confirmed Death Eater's wife. Ministry insiders reveal that both Malfoy parents are presently deceased, and that their son Draco is not amongst suspects detained by the Aurors during the blitz of Death Eater arrests on Monday._

_Furthermore, our sources tell us that in fact, young Malfoy was responsible at least in part for the defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named as well as the rescue of Harry Potter's friends. Unfortunately, the Prophet has been unable to reach Draco Malfoy, but there seems to be a classic, inspiring story of redemption behind his actions. We will endeavour to keep our readers updated on this gripping tale as new information becomes available. For a detailed profile of Draco Malfoy's life before the war, with statements from former schoolmates and exclusive photographs, turn to page 3._

Draco crushed the newspaper into a ball and set fire to it. He was going to fucking kill Remus Lupin.

* * *

Aside from his single, unfinished beer with Lupin, it had been a long time since he'd had alcohol of any kind (the Dark Lord frowned upon it in the ranks; said he preferred his followers alert should he have need of them, not fogged with drink; Draco's feelings on the subject were, if the Dark Lord had really wanted useful minions, he shouldn't have recruited so many bloody idiots to the cause), and the first shot scorched a path down his esophagus and made him shudder. He quickly ordered another.

By the time the dark-haired man sat down next to him, the world had grown hazy, and Draco quite liked it that way. So he could be forgiven for not realizing he had company until a voice to his right said, "Malfoy? Draco Malfoy? Is that you?"

Draco turned and blinked at the man. Dark hair…glasses…pale, skinny thing…. "Potter?" he asked, a wave of horror cutting straight through his buzz.

The man laughed. "Oh, no, I wish." He grinned at Draco, and Draco wished he'd done that before, because then he certainly wouldn't have mistaken him for Potter. Potter never smiled at him. "Terry Boot. D'you remember me? We were at Hogwarts—"

"Yeah," Draco lied, "yeah, of course. Boot. Right. How are you?"

"Oh, you know, just celebrating, right?"

"Right," Draco said. "Celebrating."

"Say, I saw the article about you in the _Prophet_ today. That was something else."

Draco laid his head on the bar and moaned.

Boot laughed again. He had an annoying laugh. Then again, Draco was inclined to find pretty much everything annoying these days. "Hey, it wasn't as bad as all that," Boot said. "And I guess we have you to thank, in part, for freeing us from the scourge of Voldemort."

Draco lifted his head and stared at Boot. "Tell me you did not just actually use the phrase 'the scourge of Voldemort' in casual conversation."

Boot laughed. Draco wished he'd stop doing that. "Well, you know, Ravenclaw," he said. "Old habits die hard."

"Habits," Draco muttered. "Right."

"So what are you doing here all by yourself this early in the evening?" Boot continued blithely. "Shouldn't you be out getting lauded somewhere?"

Draco turned a sharp eye on him. "Frankly," he said, "right now I'm more interested in getting laid, so if you're not inclined to help on that score, you might as well piss off right now."

Boot blinked, then a small, wicked smile curved his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

At least Boot didn't laugh while Draco was fucking him.

…Not even when Draco gasped the wrong name as he came.

* * *

Draco woke several hours later with the Dark Lord of all hangovers and the uncomfortable awareness that his convenient Potter substitute was still somewhere in his flat, if the whistling was any indication. He dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. Boot was in the kitchenette, wearing nothing but his y-fronts and whistling tunelessly as he rummaged through the icebox. Draco had thought there was nothing more annoying than the man's laugh. He stood corrected.

"Look," he began, "Boot—"

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

"Fuck," Draco said.

"Don't answer it," Boot said, propping one hip against the cupboard in what he no doubt thought was a come-hither fashion. "We can go back to bed, and—"

"Oh, shut up," Draco said, and turned to walk to the door. "Who is it?" he asked, almost hoping it was a rogue Death Eater, there to murder him for his disloyalty to the Dark Lord.

It was worse. "It's Harry Potter," said the voice on the other side, and Draco felt himself go cold. He swung open the door to find Potter still talking. "I just—" He halted when he saw Draco.

"Potter, I—" What was Potter doing there? Why now, when he had a Boot in the kitchen and all he wanted was to be _Avada Kedavra_ -ed in peace? "This isn't a very good time."

"Who is it, Draco?" Boot asked from behind him, and Draco watched as Potter's eyes grew round and shocked. So Potter hadn't even known he was gay. It figured.

Potter blinked at Draco, then at Boot, then back to Draco, and Draco couldn't stand it anymore. He slammed the door in Potter's face.

Draco leaned his back against the other side of the door. His knees gave out, and he slid slowly down until he was crouched on the floor, his face to his knees.

"Well," Boot said, "that wasn't very—" Draco lifted his head and snarled at him, and Boot skittered away. "Right. I'll, uh…I'll just get my things…."

"Right," Draco said to his knees. "You do that."

* * *

The next afternoon, he was unsurprised to hear a knock at the door. "Who is it?" he asked, though he didn't really need to.

"Harry Potter," replied the slightly tentative voice on the other side.

Draco took a deep breath, and opened the door. "Come in."

Potter stepped through the door, looking relieved but still unsure of his welcome. Draco sighed. "I apologize about last night," he said. "I just—"

"It's fine," Potter replied quickly. "I would have done the same thing."

Draco quirked an eyebrow at him, and Potter—unbelievably—blushed. 

"Oi, I don't mean—er—Malfoy?"

Merlin save him from whatever had brought Potter here. "Yeah?"

"Why didn't you let Bellatrix Lestrange kill me that night?"

Draco stilled, then stepped around Potter to close the door and slide the deadbolt home. He searched Potter's face for any sign of what this might really be about. All he saw were confusion, dark green eyes, an altogether too becoming blush—and maybe, just maybe, a stirring of interest. The thought made his throat go dry. "Do you really want to know?" he asked.

Potter held himself still under Draco's scrutiny, then slowly nodded. "Yeah," he said.

Piece by piece, Draco began to tell Potter his story—the death of his parents, the curse, his defection from the Dark Lord, how he'd come to…look forward to his meetings with Potter.

Potter sucked in a breath. "Are you saying you—"

Draco snapped. "Oh, for crying out loud, Potter, can you please not interrupt?"

Quietly: "Sorry."

It was ridiculous—the last time he'd felt this frightened was the day he'd returned to the Dark Lord's side to begin his life as a spy. This wasn't life and death—the future of the world didn't depend on this conversation. The only thing riding on this was something he wanted desperately, and never thought he'd be given the opportunity to have. If he told Potter everything, and Potter walked away from him, he'd lose nothing but an improbable dream. On the other hand, if Potter stayed—

Potter's eyes were very, very green as he looked at Draco—pensive, he knew. But maybe, just maybe, also…hopeful.

 _You can't keep running_ , Lupin had said.

Draco made his choice.

"When Aunt Bellatrix raised her wand," he said slowly, "I knew that I couldn't let that happen. I wanted nothing more than a world without the Dark Lord, but I couldn't bear to live in a world without—without you." He turned away, so he wouldn't have to see Potter's face if he were rejected. "I didn't do it for you, Potter. I did it for me. Because I'd rather have you in the world and never be able to touch you than not have you here at all."

There was a long pause. Then, "Is that—is that why you helped Hermione and Ron?" 

Something inside of Draco cracked. Potter didn't get it; he'd never get it. He met Potter's gaze and almost involuntarily stepped closer, watching panic flicker briefly in those damned green eyes. "Honestly, Potter," he spat, "what do you take me for? You know what they were doing to her. Do you think I condoned it? Do you?"

Draco's mouth was only inches from Potter's, and Potter was staring at his as though mesmerized.

"Well, she's Muggle-born," Potter managed. "You hate—"

As quickly as the anger had come, it fled, leaving him feeling more weary and bitter than he had any right to be at the age of eighteen. He shook his head. "I don't hate anything anymore." 

This was it; Draco had gambled, and lost.

But Potter's mouth was still only inches from his, and when Potter licked his lips nervously, some last, desperate part of Draco reacted. With a strangled moan, he pressed his lips against Potter's.

Unbelievably, Potter's mouth opened under his, and his tongue slid against Draco's—eager, wet, so unbelievably hot, Draco thought he might come from kissing Potter alone. 

Potter made a low, rough sound against his mouth, and it was enough to make Draco break the kiss. He turned his face away. "I'm sorry," he panted. "I just—you shouldn't—"

"Malfoy," Potter said, not moving away. "Last night—"

Draco shook his head, coloring at the memory. "That was—it was nothing. Nobody. I—"

"Malfoy," Potter whispered.

Almost reluctantly, Draco turned back to face him, and there was something in Potter's eyes—something warm, and something very certain.

Potter smiled. "Draco. Kiss me again."


End file.
